


History Becomes Legend, Legend Becomes Myth

by bramblePatch



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alien Mythology/Religion, Cult of the Mirthful Messiahs, Cult of the Signless Sufferer, Gen, Implied Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-22
Updated: 2013-03-22
Packaged: 2017-12-06 02:56:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/730748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bramblePatch/pseuds/bramblePatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternian society is full of people who think they know the Handmaid's story. She wishes they wouldn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	History Becomes Legend, Legend Becomes Myth

The legends are both disjointed and strikingly consistent, as legends are.

_They are inaccurate, as legends are._

There was (the legends claim, because the truth is too unbelievable even for legend) an egg in the very first clutch which shone like flawless garnet, and it hatched into the first maroon-blooded grub, and she grew into the first troll of that lowliest of castes.

_First, last, she supposes it doesn't make a lot of difference from her perspective._

And this first rustblood was a witch of great strength and cunning and pride, so that she would not heed her place but stood as if equal to any who flew through the air or walked on the land or swum in the seas. She wielded power as surely as any weapon, and picked at the seams of time itself. She made enemies who would have struck her down.

But when Death came to her, he was smitten. That which Death takes, he cannot keep, and so he declared that he would not take the rustblood from Alternia.

She would stay at his side, his to keep but not to claim, until the end of time. Not a troll, but a Demoness.

This is where the legends diverge.

Probably the most common version of the tale holds her his accomplice, his Handmaid. She is the monster who changes the course of history as her master cannot. She may be his doting moirail, or his willing matesprit - it depends upon who you ask.

_The thought of either turns her stomach, and she has culled some who did not strictly have to die, when they made such assumptions._

To those who follow the way of the Circus, the Demoness is a saint: she is a trickster and an apostle. They credit her, perhaps, with more self-determination than some; they call her Death's kismesis. They call her a servant of their Messiahs, or else an aspect of Them; the stories change from generation to generation. To the circus-folk, it is as much competition as loyalty that drives her - they say she delights in being able to do as Death himself cannot, and directly shape the course of history.

_To be fair, she can kind of see where they might get that impression; there is a kind of grim glee to the way that she sets about killing every clown she is permitted. There are few trolls she enjoys killing as much as those who revere the monster that holds her in thrall._

There are some among the highblooded who study the stains she leaves on the course of history, and come away with the conclusion - on the balance, she fosters the growth of the empire, she pushes it to become stronger and she cements the power that the seadwellers hold. If Death would see all laid low, they reason, then the Demoness tempers that all-consuming hate. And so, they call her auspistice between Death and all of trollkind.

_If they think this means she will prevent their deaths, or hesitate to deal the fatal blow herself, they are sadly mistaken._

And those who follow the teachings of the Signless Sufferer have their own legends that they whisper among themselves when no one else can hear.

_She still is not quite sure why she ever spoke to him, but she did, a handful of times; maybe it was just that he was easy to talk to. Maybe it was that she'd grown up on stories of him, as much as he'd had stories of her. Maybe it was that, though he clearly had a name on the tip of his tongue, he asked her what she wanted to be called._

_She didn't have an answer, not the first time. Once, she asked what he would have called her, if he'd trusted his judgment, and the wiggler's name he gave felt strange and heavy on her tongue. Was no more_ her _than anything else she'd ever been called._

The cultists don't call her Demoness, they don't call her collaborator. They are wary of her help, certainly, especially after she props up a certain rebellion until it collapses under its own weight and takes the adult planetary civilization with it. But at the same time, they call her a patron of lost causes and of long shots. 

_"Were we friends?" she asked once, when he walked into the desert with her, more at ease with her than any troll she'd ever known._

_He laughed a little, adjusting the hang of his cloak. "As much as I was friends with anyone in the group, I suppose."_

_She lapsed into silence again, trying to figure out what it was she was trying to ask. "Was I... happy?"_

_"By the end of it all, none of us were," he hedged. "But once, yes. You were happy, and free, and in love."_

_"I've never been any of those."_

Hundreds and hundreds of sweeps after his death, there are none who still know what the Signless Sufferer knew of her, but there are some who remember that he knew _something_. They allow that her actions are a product of the world, rather than the other way around.

_Some of them, it actually hurts her to have to kill. Mourning her victims is rare. She savors it._


End file.
